


Playing Doctors (or: five medical show crossovers that never happened)

by Roga



Category: E.R., Grey's Anatomy, House M.D., Scrubs
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-21
Updated: 2007-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-02 20:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roga/pseuds/Roga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...five medical show crossovers that never happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing Doctors (or: five medical show crossovers that never happened)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **hannahrorlove**, who requested "top five medical show crossovers". Grey's Anatomy/ER, Grey's/Scrubs, Scrubs/House, House/Grey's, and Scrubs/House.   
> Spoilers: Tiny reference to something that happens in House 3x19, general Scrubs Season 6.

**1.** _(Grey's Anatomy/ER)_

Okay, just for the record, they are not _threatened_ by the new doctor. Derek feels firmly secure that his position as the resident McDreamy remains unchallenged. Mark knows that Steamy trumps Dreamy any way of the week, and doesn't lose any sleep (at all) over the new guy, even if his face does look like it belongs on the cover of People magazine instead of in an exam room. Addison is very comfortable knowing she's McHot, and besides, even if he is married with twins, there's nothing actually negative about being surrounded by one more piece of man-candy (and this guy is, to be honest, approaching cake). Burke is just glad he's never gotten a ridiculous McNickname, and doesn't care that even a new guy is getting more attention from the damn interns than he is. Really. He's not jealous. Shut up. Dr. Ross isn't even a surgeon.

Derek's heard he moved to Washington after Chicago's Cook County General kicked him out for killing a coke-addicted baby (or something). Mark heard he was a drunk and a womanizer and had actually caused an old girlfriend to commit suicide, which is low even on Mark's moral compass. Burke's heard (not that he is in any way interested) that he left his pregnant fiancée behind when he moved to Seattle. Addison heard that from the moment he started working at Mercy West until the day his current wife arrived in Seattle he never as much as looked at another woman, and then she learned that his daughters' names are Tess and Kate, but that's because she's the only surgical attending who actually talks to the guy.

None of the boys care when Meredith starts spending more times at pedes, or when Christina's stride transforms to outright sashaying whenever Ross is around, or that Alex looks up to him like a new mentor, or that Izzie and George have actually started babysitting the twins.

Because Mc-doesn't-even-have-a-nickname _doesn't even have a nickname_, and even if he did, nothing could possibly top Mcsteamy or McDreamy or not having a nickname out of _respect_, a subject on which they absolutely do not spend entire lunch breaks harping on.

"Did you know the interns are calling him McGod now?" Addison says, joining them at the table with a smirk.

Doug Ross does not threaten Derek, Mark or Burke.

Shut up.

* * *

**2.** Dr. Cox, a rant: _(Scrubs/Grey's Anatomy) _

Let's make this clear right now, and when I say clear what I mean is that as of this moment you should imagine the words I am about to say as being sketched on a scroll in a holy Declaration of Independence font and treated as such, ergo: you should memorize them and be able to recite them at will, that will of course being my own, and if any of you have any difficulty with the big words or complicated ideas take it up with my assistant, Mr. I Don't Give A Damn, Look It Up.

So listen carefully, you bunch of glorified seamstresses. Pretending for a second that cutting people up and tinkering with their insides is actually a branch of medicine instead of a bunch of adults who still play the Milton Bradley box game from 1965, you people are _doctors_. When I call you for a consult, you come, when I don't need you any more, you leave. What you _don't_ do in between is _tell me about your love lives_. The obvious reason for this is of course that I don't give a rat's ass, or in fact the ass of any animal in the entire history of evolution, from the prehistoric amoeba's tiny one-celled rear end to J-Lo's natural yet more significant assets. I don't _care_ whose pants you are getting into. Hell, I don't care if you're doing it _in_ the hospital, as long as you still come when I whistle, and if anyone tries to turn that into a pun they will regret it. I don't care if you go around calling each other McYummy or McPumpkin or McHonest-to-god, if-my-ex-wife-were-here-she'd-puke. I don't care if all you suck ups work your way up to becoming hospital administration by sleeping with superiors, and I don't care if you attendings cut the thread on which the last semblance of respect I ever had for you was hanging by getting your rocks off with these jail baits, although, small tip, it would probably be more professional to be discreet with your torrid affairs and sex-lives, like normal people do -- watch some C-Span, that'll teach you how to do it.

The point I am trying to stress, and if it isn't pa-a-ainfully obvious by now somebody get me a jackhammer and I will _make_ it painful, is that I. Don't. Care. You're like Rhode Island, tiny and insignificant, and I'm like Antarctica, big and cold and a lot better to deal with when you're drunk, and in between us is the vast and unsurpassable ocean of NOT CARING. Nu-uh. None. Zilch. And I will make this vow, with the same gravity as I made my vow of never marrying my ex-wife again, I make this vow: the next time a cutter asks me for romantic advice of any sort I will mail them to the planet Jupiter inside the space rocket my girly protégée and idiot janitor have assembled and are trying to hide in a secret cave behind Sacred Heart Hospital.

Now… _h_waaas that clear?

Good. Lunch, Miranda?

* * *

**3.** _(House/Scrubs)_

At least it's warm in the bar.

There's cold, and then there is _cold_, and today is the latter, Chase italicizes mentally. But the bar is warm, and the music isn't crap, and if House doesn't keep Cameron at the hospital longer than necessary out of sheer spite there is a great possibility that the night will look up.

The night doesn't seem to be looking up for the guy who's just stepped into the room, though, dripping water on the floor as his makes his way to the bar. He draws Chase's attention not only by taking a seat on the barstool next to him and delicately ordering "one appletini, straight up," but because he is wearing a light blue scrubs top, a flower-patterned yellow skirt, is holding a motorcycle helmet, and because he is, as previously mentioned, thoroughly drenched.

The guy looks at him. "This can all be easily explained." His hair is a complete mess, and he looks like a damp, miserable puppy.

Chase raises an eyebrow. "I'm sure it can."

"Oh, hey!" The guy brightens a bit. "G'day, matey-o, cheery-oh-ee chum chum. Mate. Or G'even'n, I suppose."

He winks.

"Um, thanks," Chase says. Americans have the strangest notions, sometimes.

"Just trying to make you feel at home."

"I'm actually the one who lives in New Jersey," Chase says, looking pointedly at the guy's arm, which has _Great Potatoes, Tasty Destinations -- Visit Idaho!_ tattooed on it.

"Oh, that's just ink," the guy says, appearing to notice the tattoo for the first time, and rubs his arm. Nothing happens. "I hope. Anyway, I'm JD," he say, outstretching a hand.

Chase shakes it out of politeness and then wipes his wet palm on his trousers. "Robert."

JD's drink arrives and he took a long sip, closing his eyes as he swallows. "Ah," he breathes. "I know this is liquid, and yet, suddenly I don't feel as soggy. The apple's quite good, but the tini is _magical_."

Chase wonders if Cameron is on her way. He checks his watch.

"Are you waiting for someone?" JD asks.

"A friend," Chase replies.

JD waggles his eyebrows. "A special friend?"

"Just… someone I work with."

"Ah," JD says again, nodding sagely. "That kind. I know."

He _does_ look like he knows. Chase leans closer, curious. "What _do_ you know?"

"You know. You work with a girl, you fall in love with her, you sleep together, you break up, you sleep together, you break up, you try the sex-buddy angle, you break up, you want more, she wants more, and you end up breaking up. It sounds like a lot of ups, but it's actually very down most of the time." JD sips his appletini through a green straw. "I've totally been there."

"That's very, er, encouraging," Chase says, discouraged. "We're sort of… sort of. Not really. I don't exactly know," he admits.

"Now, my _personal_ tip is, don't tell her you're in love with her and make her break off an engagement for you and then tell her that you're not. That way lies pain, my friend."

"Er, thanks," Chase says, and adds, "Solid advice coming from the man wearing the wet yellow… you know, what is that?"

"It's the bottom half of a sari," JD explains. "A hobo woman gave it to me in Kentucky in exchange for a square dancing lesson. I was out of pants, you see."

"I do, in fact."

"It's janitor at the hospital I work in's fault. He likes to pull pranks. He thinks I'm prone to humiliation."

Chase has no words of comfort to respond with, so he just says, "I work at a hospital too."

"I wish I could be there right now," JD says wistfully. "I hate being on this road trip while patients could be dying in California right now because I'm not there to save them."

Chase feels like that too, occasionally, like life would be simpler if he could be at the hospital and out of it at the same time. Sometimes he wonders what it would be like if his head were separated from his body. His head could stay in Diagnostics, brainstorming with the others during the differential and floating by the ceiling, high enough that House's cane couldn't reach him, while his body went for a swim and spent time tanning on the hospital roof. Of course that might become a problem if House ever did catch his head -- he'd probably swing his cane like a baseball bat to propel Head as far away as possible, and when Chase shouted, "Body, come!" Body would trip and fall off the roof in an attempt to catch him.

Chase shakes himself out of his fantasy and takes a swig of his beer. JD's head is tilted slightly to the left, and Chase wonders what he's thinking. "But it would be one hell of a dive," JD finally murmurs with a sigh.

Chase finishes his beer and JD orders another appletini, and he's back to looking miserable when he asks Chase if he knows of any motels in Princeton that charge under five bucks a room, or if there's an on call room at Chase's hospital that's maybe free for the night -- "and there could be something in it for you too, young man," he adds with a sly wink, sliding three dollar bills toward Chase's empty beer bottle.

The bills are soaked through and Chase sighs and invites JD to crash at his place, because Cameron, another glance at his watch reveals, will probably not be showing up tonight.

JD perks up, almost like he too has just had the phrase _slumber party_ cross his mind.

Chase orders another beer and JD blurts, like he's been dying to ask all night, "So tell me, _who_ does your hair?"

As Chase proceeds to impress JD with how he actually does his _own_ hair and has a rather remarkable collection of hats to keep it dry in rain or snow, he thinks to himself, well, at least he's not alone tonight.

* * *

**4.** _(House/Grey's Anatomy)_

Bring me that heart, House had ordered, or it's off with your head.

"You got it?" the nurse asks. Foreman carefully takes the cooler from his hands and starts heading towards the roof, where the chopper is waiting. His parents would be so proud to see where thousands of dollars and fifteen years of hard work have gotten him: becoming a rich, arrogant, son of a bitch's errand boy.

He hears a quick patter of steps behind him. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Foreman spins around. "I'm sorry?"

There's a scrawny, black-haired doctor running towards him, and she looks pissed. "That is my heart."

"I don't think so."

"Oh, I do," she says, with a sense of self-entitlement that would have completely familiar, had it come with a stubble. "Give it to me."

"Again," Foreman says, "I don't think so. I'm flying this heart to Princeton right now. I'm sorry, Dr…" he checks the nametag on her lab coat, "Yang."

"No you're not," she snorts, matching his stride as they climb up the stairs. "Listen, my guy's already under anesthesia, we were first on the transplant list, there must have been some kind of mistake. I'm taking this to Seattle."

"Yeah, well my guy's unconscious too," he says, leaving out 'and has been for the past week'. "And I guess he was bumped to the top."

"How do you know?"

"Well, they gave _me_ the heart," he points out.

The rooftop greets them with a blast of wind, and the sight of two choppers waiting side by side. Yang suddenly slaps a hand on Foreman's wrist, weakening his hold on the cooler. "Look, whatever, I don't care, I'm not leaving here without this heart."

Foreman yanks his hand back. "Are you crazy?"

"My patient's been waiting for that heart for three years," she snaps.

"Yeah, well without it _my_ patient's gonna die within the next week!"

"What does he have?" she challenges.

Foreman can't help but feel embarrassed when he says, "If he gets this heart, we'll find out."

Yang's eyes widen. "They're letting you transplant a heart without knowing the cause of his illness? That's insane!"

"Well, so's my boss." Foreman really hopes that House wasn't lying when he said everything was cleared and Cuddy was just dealing with the paperwork, although upon reconsideration it sounds like exactly the sort of lie House would tell.

"Well," Yang whips out a cell phone, "I'm calling my boss. Believe me, we're pros at this kind of situation."

Foreman rolls his eyes and starts walking to the PPTH MEDEVAC helicopter. "I don't have time for this."

"You bet your ass you do!" Yang shouts over the wind and the propellers. "Don't you dare go on that chopper!"

Foreman darts a glance around his shoulder and finds her eyes are flashing angrily and whoa, for a small woman she really is quite terrifying. His muscles tense involuntarily, some instinctive part of him preparing to be tackled to the ground, and he reminds himself that House really will kill him this time if he returns to the office sans heart. He mounts the steps to the chopper when he feels a hand grab him again. "Give it to me!"

Foreman tries pulling back, but Yang's got a death grip on his arm, waving her cell phone with the other. He can only hear fractions of what she's saying over all the noise. "My boss-- cleared-- ours--"

"I can't hear you!" he shouts back.

She pulls on the cooler again and for one incredible moment they're actually playing tug-of-war with a guy's _heart_, and Foreman knows things cannot possibly get more surreal than this-- except that that's the moment when Yang chooses to _fucking bite him_. There's a sharp pain in his arm and he shouts "Ow, bitch!" after Yang, who is already running away with the cooler she snatched out of his hands.

"Fuck!" he yells in frustration as her helicopter rises to the air, and for a second considers asking his own to chase them down, but there's only so much he's willing to do for House.

When he gets back to PPTH House asks, "Did you at least bring me the heart of a pig?" but Cameron rolls her eyes with disgust. "It's a good thing you didn't get that heart," she tells Foreman, "Cuddy pulled back authorization at the last minute-- according to the new test results this heart would have killed him." Not that they're any closer to finding a diagnosis, but they're working on it.

Later, Chase pulls him aside. "So you're in the club too now, huh," he says with a small grin.

Foreman frowns. "What are you talking about?"

Chase rolls up his shirt sleeve to right above his elbow, and holds his arm next to Foreman's.

Their bite marks are a perfect match.

* * *

**5.** _(House/Scrubs)_

Cameron's down in the hospital's main lobby when she overhears a breathless voice pant, "Hi, I'm looking for Dr. Kim Briggs, is she--whew, I really am in incredible shape, I just don't look it after running two mile--anyway, Kim, is she here?"

The receptionist at the admissions desk shakes her head. "I'm sorry, there's no Dr. Briggs working in this hospital."

Cameron's heart sinks, but she collects herself, taking a step forward. "She's a patient in my department," she says, drawing both their attention. "You must be John Dorian."

In an instant he's standing in front of Cameron, nearly bouncing on his feet with energy. "I am, but you can call me JD, or J-Dizzle, or heck, even Janine. Or you can call me The Father. I should get used to that." He's only slightly sweating from his apparent run, but he seems fully prepared, with about ten helium balloons in one hand and a huge bouquet of flowers in the other, and two stuffed teddy and stuffed dog dolls held under his armpits.

There are times when Cameron really hates her job.

She swallows. "JD, let's go upstairs and talk someplace a little less public."

"Okay," he says happily, and he looks like he's probably high enough right now to agree with anything she suggests. As they walk, JD continues talking in a steady stream of babble. "So how's she doing? Am I too late? When I got your message two days ago I rode Sasha straight to the airport -- Sasha my bike, not a woman, although for the record that would also be okay because I didn't find out about the baby until your message and the ladies kind of find me hard to resist, but anyway -- the airport has apparently been _closed for renovations_, I mean, what kind of airport does that? And Sasha ran out of gas in the middle of Nowhere, California. Lucky for me, heavy-metal-trucker-guy passed by and gave me a lift to LAX. So I took the first flight, right, and they landed the plane in Pennsylvania because of bad weather conditions in Newark, so I had to hitch a ride to Jersey in this Amish buggy -- by the way, never try reenacting scenes from _Witness_ when you're hitching a ride with an Amish couple, it will end badly -- and they let me off two miles away from here and I ran all the way to the hospital. So," he lets out an enormous breath, "I haven't exactly slept at all in the past two days, but that gave me time to think. And I'm ready. I admit, I was mad at first, what with the lying about the miscarriage and everything, but I'm ready to be a dad. I've been practicing, you know, I've got two godchildren and a World's Best Godfather mug, which okay, I made, but only because the babies were too small to make it themselves. And I'm ready to be with Kim, to elope or whatever because we were _perfect_ together. We're a match, like Brad and Angelina, if they were both sexy doctors. So, how is she?"

They've reached the office, which is empty, and Cameron closes the door behind her and forces herself to speak. "Kim told me to call you two days ago because she was very sick, and we didn't know what was wrong with her."

"Okay," JD says, sounding just a little bit hesitant but still smiling widely. "Why would she come all the way out here, though? She works at a hospital."

"She was referred to this department because Dr. House is an excellent diagnostician," Cameron says slowly, and finds herself unable to continue, because god, her heart aches. He doesn't deserve this. As long as she doesn't tell him, he's still happy.

"Well, did you figure out what was wrong with her?" he asks, his brows furrowing. "I mean, I should… I should go see her. She wouldn't have called me if she didn't want me here, right? Is she in labor yet?"

"Kim went into labor yesterday," she hears herself answer. There's a hopeful question in JD's eyes, and she continues, "At nine PM last night she gave birth to a healthy baby boy."

JD lights up like the sun. "A boy. Oh, wow. I told myself I wasn't going to faint, but," he sways for a second, then grabs the back of a chair for support, dropping the stuffed teddy in the process, "I _told_ Dr. Cox I had enough testosterone to make a boy. I… can I whoop here? Are there dying people around? Because I really want to whoop. Whoa, dizzy."

Cameron smiles gently and actually feels tears prickling in her eyes. Steady voice, it'll be over soon, steady voice. "JD," she says softly. But he's on a roll, ignoring her as he says, "My baby boy's going to marry Turk's baby girl and they'll have perfect, tasty mocha babies themselves, if Turk ever allows Izzie to have sex, I'll have to talk to him about that--"

"What's going on here?"

House is standing at the door, looking angry. "Who are you?"

"Hello!" JD waves. "I'm the father!"

House's eyes snap to Cameron, and his stare actually burns. "You didn't tell him?"

"I was just about to--"

"Tell me what?" JD asks, and this time his fear overwhelms that carefree smile.

House's demeanor softens. "There were complications at the baby's birth. I'm sorry. Your girlfriend died last night."

And Cameron wants to kill House. You fucking bastard, you do not do that, you don't _do_ that to people--

JD is standing completely still. He doesn't seem to notice that he's let go of all the balloons, which are softly bumping against the ceiling.

It's as if every drop of youth he had has left him in an instant.

"Kim's dead," he says, like he's trying to make new syllables fit together.

"I'm so sorry," Cameron says. "There was a lot of bleeding at the birth and after the birth. There's a complication called postpartum pituitary necrosis, which means--"

"I'm a doctor," JD says quietly, "I know what it means."

"I'm sorry," she says again, feeling completely helpless. She looks at House, who meets her gaze for a moment and turns his back, leaving the room, refusing to help or make things any easier for her. She knows he's still angry with them, and even more with himself, for not figuring out what was wrong with Kim. None of them deal with failure well, but House…

"Can I see him?" JD breaks her thoughts.

"Of course," she replies, and a least it's something to do. JD sets the rest of the gifts down on the table, and then picks up the stuffed dog again, clenching it tightly. As opposed to their previous walk through hospital corridors, this time he doesn't say a word as she leads him to the nursery, where Chase is sitting with the baby, whispering something to the crib. Probably apologizing; god knows that's what she wants to do.

Chase hands baby Dorian, she supposes he'll be called now, to JD, whose eyes grow as wide as saucers. For almost a minute he just looks at the baby with wonder, frozen in place, and Chase finally takes Cameron's hand, says, "We'll be outside if you need us," and pulls her out of the room.

They watch through the window as something close enough to smile appears on JD's face, and he murmurs something to the baby, jigging it a little bit from side to side.

"This sucks," Chase exhales.

Cameron presses a hand against the window, tracing the outline of the small bundle of blankets with her finger. "Yeah."

**Author's Note:**

> Because the end is depressing, [floating head doctor!](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JpZVdAltIhM) :D


End file.
